


Snap, Crackle, Pop

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Bad Cooking, Baking, Banter, Brotherly Affection, Confidence, Dessert & Sweets, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multiple Selves, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Pride, Self-Esteem, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Dr. Iplier’s search for the evening’s dessert brings a wave of uninvited grief.





	Snap, Crackle, Pop

_Dessert_ , Dr. Iplier mused as he rifled through the cookbook, making faces at all of the “oldies but goodies” they had baked recently. Everything had been too sweet, too soft, or too sticky, always ending up in their laps or on their faces. That was just how Wilford liked it, but he was essentially a garbage disposal who would dispose of any stray food, while the others had more refined tastes. Just yesterday, poor Silver Shepherd had been horrified to find that his cupcake had flecks of blood in it, unfortunate courtesy of the Host’s baking—and they would soon realize that the rest of them were not exempt.

That was that; Dr. Iplier had thrown his hands down. “I’ll find a real dessert and I’ll make it myself, since all of you are likely to die in the process of finding something original!” he challenged. Everyone was all too happy to let him.

Thus he’d ended up here, with absolutely no original ideas. All of his options were recipes they had tried recently with little success or old ones that were disliked by all but were never thrown away. He hissed through his teeth in frustration as he thumbed through the pages, shaking his head.

 _Alright, fine. I’ll just sneak out and bring back something store-bought! It’s not like they’ll know the difference…and if they do, at least Wilford will eat it_. As he shifted the cookbook in his hand to stuff it back on the top shelf of the cupboard, however, a crisply folded paper slipped from the back of the jacket cover, fluttering down like a butterfly with a damaged wing. As soon as it hit the floor, the doctor caught a glimpse of the handwriting and his heart plummeted down to meet it.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring down the recipe with fear and loathing. At last he bent, almost mechanical, and snatched it up, scanning the title. It was written in that familiar cursive, so elegant and curly that it was almost illegible in its beauty.

_ Cream Cheese Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Muffins _

He could hear his voice saying those words with so much pride. It was a well-loved recipe, passed on by someone in their family who had died long ago. No one had made it since, but he had dared. He had asked why no one honored their family’s memories, why they only ever thought about the future. He had put them to shame with his surety and his modesty and so many of his big, beautiful, nostalgic dreams.

Even so, it had been a very, very long time since these were baked, Dr. Iplier mused distantly as he peeled apart the folds and spread the paper on the counter. Patiently it sat there before him, enduring his inspection, and before he knew it he was peeling off his lab coat and throwing it across the nearest chair, impulsively rolling up the sleeves of his collar shirt as well.

_“What do you think?”_

_“Of what? I’m sorry, I don’t have to—”_

_“No, no, look! Look at these…”_

_Eyebrows rising incredulously, he glanced between the beaming baker and the plate he’d just slid next to the open medical textbooks. “You made these?”_

He cranked the oven dial to 400 degrees and lined his muffin pan meticulously. The flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt stained his hands, found ways under his fingernails, and he suddenly realized that he hadn’t washed his hands before starting. A weak laugh pushed its way out of him as he realized how scandalized the last user of this recipe would be if he could see him now.

He would lament that dirty hands are no better than blood in the bake! It would put off the entire fluffy balance! As he glanced down at his hands, buried in the batter, Dr. Iplier saw dark flecks of dried blood under his fingernails and in the creases of his palms and knuckles. When he blinked, the flecks were grainy white.

_“Try them and tell me what you think! I know I should have been more generous with the sugar sanding, but…”_

_“Oh—Oh, wow.”_

_“‘Wow’? What does that mean? Too much cream cheese? Too much peanut butter?”_

The cream cheese/egg mixture was the perfect texture, smooth and soft and sticky, and the chocolate—oh, the chocolate. Perhaps he was breaking all of the professional baking rules by sneaking a taste of it beforehand, but when he did, all he could taste was the tang of metal and his own fingers.

 _Flesh of his flesh_.

Maybe the chocolate was too rich. Yes. That had to be the cause.

The peanut butter he stole from a jar the King of the Squirrels had just finished. The King always left behind some butter in the bottom of the jar, which went to waste when he threw it away, but here it would find a good home, evenly distributed in the batter. By now, sweat was beading on the doctor’s forehead as the oven churned a warm flush into his skin.

_“Don’t leave me in suspense, tell me! Do you hate them?”_

_“Of course not! These are incredible!”_

_The baker’s eyes widened and he shifted back slightly, processing these words. Ever so slowly, the most delighted of smiles crept onto his face, hesitant but growing braver. “…R-Really? You mean that?”_

The chocolate sanding sugar spilled all over the counter as Dr. Iplier tossed handfuls of it on top of the muffins he’d dumped into the tin. He wasn’t being particularly careful right now; he was just going through the motions. The baker had said he should have been more generous with his sugar, so Dr. Iplier would be more than generous. He would be generous enough for the _both_ of them. Once the batter had sunken in slightly due to the sugar’s weight, he paused, looking them over intently.

They wouldn’t be perfect. They would never be perfect. Only one person had ever made them perfect and it wasn’t him. What the baker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—

 _Oh_. Another weak noise left his throat, but it wasn’t a laugh. As he gripped the edges of the muffin tin, the doctor bent his head over it, letting his eyes close against uninvited dampness. It was…just the sweat getting into his eyes. That was why it burned.

_“They’re amazing, I mean it!”_

_“You really like them? You’re not making fun of me?” As soon as the words left his mouth, the light left the baker’s eyes and he glanced back toward the door, looking to make a quick exit._

_“No…” Edward squinted at him, warily puzzled. “Why would I make fun of you?”_

_“…No reason.”_

_His chair was scraping back and his hand was on the baker’s arm. When he spoke, his words were just as firm as his grip. “Hey. You know I think you’re the best of the best, right? This is what you’re meant to do. Heh, that’s why I’m sticking to my medical journals. I could never do what you do…I’m actually kind of proud of that.”_

Lifting his head, Dr. Iplier took a breath, turning on his heel and striding with purpose toward the oven. The muffin tin shook slightly between his hands, its contents wobbling in time with his steps, but he kept it level.

_“I’m proud of you.”_

He closed the distance.

_“I’m proud of you too.”_

He touched the warm oven door handle.

_“But don’t go getting too big for your baking!”_

He eased it open.

_“You’re still my little brother.”_

Scalding heat blasted out, carried by the off-yellow light inside the deadly furnace. He lurched back, the tray tumbling through his fingers, hissing and spitting as hot metal struck metal and the batter splashed. The doctor clutched at his hair, covered his face as he stumbled over his own feet, dropping into a ball on the floor and gasping.

What his brother didn’t know couldn’t hurt him—except the gas leak. So much fire and smoke and blood and charred, tattered skin and the makings of chicken cordon bleu, meant to be taken to the hospital in a neat little box, to his hardworking brother.

His hardworking brother received a different box entirely, wood as dark and rich as its occupant’s eyes once were—so bright with hope—until it was dusted with its own sanding sugar and buried.

Dr. Iplier hadn’t washed his hands then either.

Swearing hoarsely through strangled tears, he tucked his head tighter between his knees and tried to breathe. All he could smell was the batter as it sizzled and burned.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the headcanon that Chef Iplier was Dr. Iplier’s younger brother. Their parents wanted them both to go into the medical field, but Chef Iplier followed his dreams to become a cook instead. Dr. Iplier was sorely disappointed; he wanted his brother to follow his example and obey their parents, so he wouldn’t feel so alone in the doctor’s office. To satisfy him, Chef Iplier promised to bring him lunch every day. 
> 
> The [explosion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jwu4uucjkLY) made sure he could never keep his promise. Dr. Iplier was the attending physician when Chef Iplier was brought in and his last words to him were “I’m sorry…” 
> 
> Dr. Iplier was never quite the same afterward. His minimal bedside manner disappeared completely and he began pronouncing his patients dead on arrival, no matter what state they were in. He couldn’t save his brother. What proof was there that he could save them?
> 
> _“I’m sorry. You’re dying.”_


End file.
